


Chain Reaction

by Ruth_Devero



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two guys in a rut, some handcuffs, and entirely the wrong kind of tea.  As fluffy and burned-out as I get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain Reaction

Chakotay had often thought in the last year that his life had dug a rather boring rut he was anxious to escape; but waking up handcuffed to a bed, naked beside a handcuffed and naked Tom Paris wasn’t actually what he’d had in mind.

He tugged experimentally; heard the chink-clank of metal against metal. Yep. Handcuffs. He grasped the metal bars of the headboard and yanked. Yep. Really sturdy bed.

He looked down at himself, ruefully, then over at Paris, sleeping like a debauched satyr 15 centimeters away. Yep.

Naked.

Somewhere in the universe, his ancestors were probably laughing their heads off.

Chakotay shifted impatiently. _Damn_ itfuck. Where the fuck were they? What the fuck had happened?

Arms were falling asleep: they’d been chained to a crosspiece about a third of a meter above the mattress. Those fucking “smart” cuffs that required the right fingerprint to open. Or, barring that, a long electronic message to the manufacturer, with a lot of explanations and identifications. Chain looped right across the junction where the horizontal bar was soldered to a vertical one, so there wasn’t any moving it. Both men chained to the same junction: Paris’s hands rested lightly on his. Warm hands.

Chakotay eased himself up. The movement jarred Paris, who muttered, “Hmmssfffff nunnnt” and fell silent.

Shit. Chakotay glared around him. They were pretty high up; through a window near the bed he could see wastelands stretching to the horizon under the golden sky of D’hon. Must be on the wall that surrounded the city. Sky the brassy gold of late morning. The Moon of Veldan—shit, at least he thought it was the Moon of Veldan—there were eighteen visible moons of various sizes, each with its own name, and he’d spent the whole fucking week being condescendingly corrected by D’honians—but maybe it was the Moon of Tlanor or Ciskehon—okay, some damn moon glowed red near the top of the sky, colored by sands the summer winds lifted from deserts to the west. A bit rosier this year—or so they’d been told—after that little accident in the Jerau Sea—and that is just really enough about the moon, Commander.

 _Clear your head_. He tried a deep breath, an exhale. _Focus_. Trouble was, his brain seemed to seize on everything his eyes showed it, and just run right through all the possibilities and permutations before he could stop it. The glint of sunlight on an edge of broken glass in the window; and diamond-ice-glaciersofAbau-FranklinandhismenintheArctic skittered through his brain. The rasp of an insect singing in the corner led him down a trail of crickets-cicadas-summerday-nakedinthegrass. The tender light gilding Paris—softening the hollows and enriching the curves—occupied him for about nine years.

He closed his eyes. _Focus_. He tried deep breaths, jerked his mind away from following the air rushing through the pink caverns of his lungs. _Focus_. _Find the center_. _Hold it_. _Hold it_.

 _All right_.

So. He opened his eyes, looked around. Small room with just a bed and a wooden chest—both grimy. Gritty mattress stained by the bodies that had lain on it years before. Dust the shade of— _Quit that!_ Deep breath. Dust and litter on the floor. Except between the bed and the closed door: footprints and trails showed where something had been dragged to the bed.

 _And chained to it_ , he thought ruefully. _Stripped and dragged and chained to the bed_. He and Paris were filthy with dust. _And do you remember a damn thing, Commander?_

He remembered tea. There was always tea: tea was essential to the D’honian “hello”; they always gave you tea and admired tea and reminisced about tea and watched the way you held the cup and whether you understood the message of the cup and whether you were properly respectful of the tea and— Deep breath. Tea. With—who the fuck had he admired tea with this time?—with—with—with Tingondraassiik’o’na and Shalmaronarisl’ch’ke. Just—tea. Damn. Summer tea, to honor the first official day of the summer winds.

Summer tea and something else. Or maybe not, since Shalmaronarisl’ch’ke and Tingondraassiik’o’na had also drunk it. Didn’t matter right then. What mattered was that he and Paris were naked and commbadge-less and alone.

“Paris,” he said. “ _Paris_.”

Paris shifted.

“Hey. _Tom_.” Chakotay said. “ _Ensign, WAKE UP!_ ”

Paris jerked at that. “Hey, honey,” he said thickly, his eyes closed. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

Chakotay bit back a smile. Love with B’Elanna Torres no doubt made you automatic with apologies.

Paris shifted, frowned, tugged at his hands. A smile curved the soft mouth. “Honey, did we—” His eyes opened then, and he stared hazily up at Chakotay.

“I guess we didn’t,” Paris said. He was still staring. My god, those eyes were the blue of the spring skies above Chakotay’s old home on Dorvan V.

“Focus,” Chakotay told him.

It took about six months to penetrate. “Huh?”

“Focus. Something in the tea is— You have to try to focus.”

Four months passed. Paris’s pupils were dilated, and a flush had risen under the gold of his skin. “Okay,” he said. He grimaced and eased himself up, catching a sharp breath when the pull on his shoulders shifted.

“If there’s something about last night that I forgot,” he said, “I apologize.”

Chakotay tried to turn his laugh into a snort. “We should be so lucky,” he said. He turned from Paris’s lascivious grin, suddenly breathless. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Tea,” Paris said dreamily. He was staring at his handcuffs.

“Hey.”

“My god, this alloy is just the color of—”

“ _Hey_.”

Paris’s eyes drifted to his. The pupils dilated again; and that soft mouth only centimeters away sent Chakotay reeling helplessly through the memories of every beautiful man and woman he’d ever kissed: warm mouths, soft— _Shit_. _QUIT that!_

“Ensign.”

Paris blinked. “Yes, Commander.”

“After the tea. Anything after the tea?”

Paris closed his eyes. Wrinkled his forehead in thought. “No. Just tea.”

“So.” Chakotay tried to sound brisk. “So, we drank the tea, and fell unconscious. And somebody took our clothing and everything else we were carrying and left us here. For—” He looked at Paris, who apparently had discovered the fascinating landscape of Chakotay’s right shoulder. “For— _Ensign?_ For what reason? Why didn’t they just kill us?”

Paris looked up at him again; and Chakotay cast a desperate look around the room for a tool of escape that he might have missed earlier.

“Because they didn’t want to?”

“So they’re not completely ruthless.”

“Just a little ruthless.” There was a grin in Paris’s voice.

Chakotay smiled.

“Why take our clothes?” Paris asked. “So we can’t leave?”

Chakotay rattled his handcuffs.

“Got that covered,” Paris answered himself.

“Disguise?” said Chakotay.

“Yeah; but, Commander, why the hell would they want to disguise themselves? I mean—neither of them actually look like us.”

 _Welcome back, Tom_. “I have no idea. To get aboard, I guess. And—” A sudden cold thought smote him. He looked at Paris.

“—and get what we wouldn’t let them have.” Paris grabbed the bar of the headboard and shook it. “ _Damn_ it!”

The effects of the tea seemed to have evaporated. “Paris.”

“Maybe if we both—”

“ _Paris_.”

Paris looked at him.

“It’s just information. Granted, we didn’t want to give it to them—” Well, to be perfectly precise, the _Captain_ didn’t want to give it to them; and hadn’t _that_ been a memorable donnybrook. “But, all they want is information about the warp engines. Not to sabotage _Voyager_. Just collect some information they were about to figure out on their own.”

Which had been the crux of the argument. The Prime Directive forbade them to interfere in a pre-warp society, which, Janeway had argued, included the D’honians. But they would _be_ a warp society, Chakotay had pointed out, if a certain experiment in the Jerau Sea hadn’t gone awry in the last second and … well … vaporized a small island. Uninhabited, happily: the D’honians prudently rigged their test to be admired from afar. The flicker of a warp signature had been distinctive enough to bring _Voyager_ out of her way to investigate. So, Chakotay argued, they counted as a warp society, and their request for information should be honored. Janeway hadn’t seen it that way. Or she had just decided to be stubborn: she had developed an unlovely tendency to not actually listen to him.

“And _mean_ while…” Paris said.

“Yeah,” said Chakotay. “Meanwhile.”

They were silent for a minute.

“How long do you think we were out?” asked Paris.

“Not long. I don’t think it’s noon yet.”

“How long do you think it’s going to be before somebody notices we’re missing?”

Well, now that was the question, wasn’t it? “They have our commbadges,” Chakotay pointed out. “If they get aboard _Voyager_ and they’re smart, it could be quite a while before anybody figures out we’re not actually there. It’s getting aboard _Voyager_ that’s the problem.”

Paris was grinning at him.

“What?” said Chakotay.

“You’ve got that ‘let’s-see-how-the-Maquis-can-get-aboard-without-detection’ look on your face.”

Chakotay found himself chuckling. “Well, it is an interesting puzzle,” he admitted.

“It’s been a while since you’ve had that look.”

“It’s been a while since I was Maquis.”

Paris grinned. But, “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

Chakotay knew exactly what he meant. “Life isn’t always interesting puzzles,” he said lightly.

“Sometimes it isn’t even—interesting.” Paris sounded less than happy.

 _Leave it, Chakotay_. So he left it. But the unhappy edge to that voice didn’t leave him.

He tried the bars again. They didn’t budge.

“Has it occurred to you,” Paris said, “that if _Voyager_ realizes we’re gone and does a bioscan and finds us and transports us back to the ship— Has it occurred to you that we’re….”

Chakotay looked at him. Paris looked down at his own lap, and then at Chakotay’s. Puzzled, Chakotay looked at Paris’s lap. Nice— Shit.

Naked, handcuffed, completely bare-assed naked, wearing only handcuffs—both of them— Shitshitshit. Except—

“Dust,” he said, giddy with relief. “Won’t find us because of the dust. Too much of that dust for the sensors.”

“Thank god,” Paris said fervently.

Chakotay tossed him a grin. “Think B’Elanna won’t believe we weren’t up to something?”

Paris looked startled for a minute. Then he seemed to find the headboard simply fascinating. “Not sure B’Elanna’ll care that much one way or another.” His voice had a determined lightness.

Chakotay looked at him out the corner of his eye. He _really_ didn’t want to have this conversation, especially right then. Naked, and—my god, the warm light from the sky added richness to the alabaster rose of Paris’s skin, and that plump cock looked— _Focus, damn it!_ Fucking tea.

Paris tugged at the bars again—out of frustration, judging by his comic grimace. Then, “Um,” he said, “you _did_ try to get these open, didn’t you?”

“You think they’d key these—”

They hadn’t. Chakotay fumbled over the keypad of his own cuffs; he fumbled over the keypad of Paris’s; Paris fumbled back; they both rattled the hell out of the damn headboard in frustration. This was stupid. He felt stupid. Fucking Tingondraassiik’o’na and Shalmaronarisl’ch’ke.

Or maybe just fucking Janeway. If she’d just unbent a little, given the D’honians what they wanted, what they were so close to finding out themselves, not been so damned by-the-book….

He closed his eyes and reached deep for that last bit of patience. Not really her fault. Not really her fault that she seemed so focused on Seven of Nine that she didn’t seem to have much time for him any more: Seven was an interesting project. After all, now that the Captain had tamed the Maquis, now that she’d trained her own pet Commander, she was probably bored— _Bitter, Commander? Try again_.

He took a deep breath. Not really her fault. Not her fault that he was feeling stagnant, burned out; that he was sick of conversations that mostly consisted of, “Yes, Captain” and “Phasers online” and “Bring the thermoneutrofractionated field coil stabilizers to thirty-two percent”; that in spite of suppers in her quarters, he felt discarded, distanced, taken for granted. After all, they were still friends. After all, he’d participated in the cooling of their attraction to each other. After all, professional burnout was inevitable in the face of six years on duty, with the prospect of at least fifty more, inevitable in the face of what they’d all gone through without Federation support. _You’re an adult, Chakotay. Adults realize that life isn’t all wonder and excitement, that it’s also hard work and monotony and functioning without outside support_ _. An adult deals with that_. Except he still felt lonely. And sometimes he got damned tired of being an adult.

A skitter-scritch from the corner, and Chakotay looked over his shoulder at a four-legged something nosing along the baseboard. Scaly body covered with stiff bristles in a darker color; naked tail; vicious claws; sharp snout with—oh, lovely—needle-thin canines protruding; little ears; fathomless eyes—ugh. Way too much like a rat for his taste. Big sonofabitch, too.

It stopped, nosed the air, and—oh, shit—scuttled a little way toward them. Paused; scented them; scuttled again, purposefully. He tried not to cringe.

Sudden movement right beside him; and, “ _Fsssssssssssssst!_ ” Paris said. The like-a-rat jumped, and then all they saw was the tip of a naked tail whisking into a hole in the wall.

Chakotay let out a shaky breath. “Damn, I hate rats,” he said.

“I remember.”

Paris moved away, and it was then that Chakotay realized that Paris had pretty much straddled him, tried to get between him and the rat-thing. He tried to look his embarrassed gratitude, and Paris grinned at him that it was nothing.

“Just hope there aren’t more,” said Paris.

“Yeah, they all get together, we’re pretty much human tartare.” Damn, he wished he hadn’t thought of that. He tried to find something less alarming. “When did you cut your hair?” he asked, peering at Paris.

Paris gave him that look women give you when you’ve finally noticed something they changed about themselves about two years ago. “Couple years ago.”

And people claimed that Indians weren’t observant anymore. “I kind of liked it longer,” Chakotay forged on. “That kind of— You know, in the front, you had that— It was longer.” Oh, shit, was he ever babbling. Damnfucking tea.

“The Wave.” Paris had turned pink.

—a _name_ for it. Chakotay laughed. “Yeah. It kind of looked good on you.”

“I don’t know. It made me— It—” Paris was a shade of rose that Chakotay could look at for days. “It just wasn’t a serious guy’s haircut. You know, not—not the new, improved me.” A sly grin. “And it took ten minutes every morning just to get it to curve right.” The grin widened at Chakotay’s laugh.

“Of course,” Paris went on, apparently picking his words carefully, “it was a while before that that you started—um. Your hair started to get—well, darker.” He tensed; his face teetered between joshery and apprehension.

Chakotay felt his face warm. How the hell to explain it—that he’d looked in the mirror and seen an old guy there? Someone who’d lost way too many years fighting an unwinnable war, who’d lost a lot of chances. How to explain trying to recapture those years as he worked to recapture his career in Starfleet? “I don’t know—suddenly the guy in the mirror didn’t look much like me, I guess. You know. The me inside.” Did that sound vain? “I just felt … less gray inside than I was outside. It sort of sneaks up on you.”

“A lot does.” Paris sounded relieved that Chakotay hadn’t strangled him or something. “I’m not really looking forward to— ” A sudden grin. “—getting gray, myself.” His grin widened. “It’s bad enough when your head goes gray: when I find the first gray _pubic_ hair, I’ll probably fall on my phaser.”

Chakotay laughed. “You light-haired guys got the advantage there.”

Paris was looking at Chakotay’s lap. “You got no worries yet.”

“Not yet.”

Then Chakotay felt all the breath leave him. Paris was still looking. Looking: and the eyes were … appreciative and—oh, shit—and speculative. For a long moment he forgot how to breathe.

Then Paris wrenched his gaze away. His face was red, and his breathing was shaky. Chakotay drew a tattered breath. He studied the handcuffs, pretending that that was what he’d been looking at all the time. But migod the room was warm.

A rustle beside him as Paris found a new position. Chakotay hazarded a look. Paris was on his knees, frowning at the wall.

“Do you think we’ll actually get back to the Alpha Quadrant in our lifetimes?” he said finally.

“Of course! I mean, they figured out a way to communicate with us; they’ll figure out a way to get us back. And there’s always the other Caretaker. She could be just—just over in the next system.”

“It’s starting to get a little … monotonous. I mean, I fly the damned ship straight forward, and I screw things up on some planet, and I take the ship out of range of unfriendly fire, and I screw things up with the rest of the crew, and— Monotonous.” He cast a rueful glance at Chakotay.

Oh, they were not starting down _this_ little path of self-absorption.

“Well, you’ve kind of … eased off the screwing up with the crew part,” Chakotay said lightly. “I mean, you haven’t—you know. I haven’t had to field any death threats for a couple months.” Paris’s smile was wan; he’d apparently been concocting himself a really good self-pity marinade.

“Have you thought about it?” Paris asked. “About—about what’ll happen after we get back?”

Shit, constantly. “Sometimes. Sometimes I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending the rest of my life in Federation prison. And sometimes I’m pretty sure I’ll be Starfleet’s favorite son.”

Paris grinned slyly. “I’ve been that. You don’t want it.”

Chakotay laughed. “I’m not counting on it.”

“Well, at least that way you’re not disappointed.”

“Right.” Chakotay’s hip was falling asleep; he shifted onto his knees; except that aggravated an old knee problem after about a minute and a half, so he had to shift again.

Paris was looking on sympathetically. “What if we—”

“I don’t think there’s anything we _can_ do.” Mygod, Paris’s body radiated heat and the musky smell of a warm man: a dizzying combination.

“Of all the places and all the people I ever thought of being handcuffed with….” Paris was grinning.

“I’m sorry it’s me instead of somebody else.”

Paris reddened. “Well, _I’m_ not. Sorry, I mean. I mean— Shit!”

He laughed nervously, and Chakotay joined him: maybe a good laugh would clear the air—which appeared to be getting kind of thin, judging by his struggle for breath—or clear his mind—which kept trying to wander into territory where Paris and naked and handcuffs and a bed and Chakotay’s cock were important elements in a memorable event. Shitfucking tea.

“What I _meant_ is,” Paris said carefully, “I can think of worse people to be handcuffed here with.”

“Like Tuvok.”

“Oh, yeah: he’s really high on my list. And Neelix.”

“Good god, don’t.” That chirrupy good humor—Chakotay would be plotting his murder in the first fifteen minutes. And he really, really didn’t want to see Neelix naked.

Okay, if he— Chakotay struggled to his feet, rocking Paris on the flimsy mattress. Okay, so he had to bend, but ohmygod it felt good to stand up.

Paris grinned and dramatically turned his head, which, Chakotay realized, was waist-level.

“Sorry,” Chakotay said.

But Paris was climbing, now, to _his_ feet. “I’ve seen worse. And smaller. Shit, this is comfortable.”

So they stood hunched like primeval humans, grinning at each other. Standing didn’t last long—too much pulling in places that hurt after a while—so they tried squatting, which— Well, knees were sharp and hard and vulnerable to being whacked against things when you fell over, which was inevitable on that mattress; and, besides, certain organs kind of hung down in a way that was just funny.

So, on his ass again, brushing legs with Paris. Something else Chakotay never wanted to do with Neelix. But it felt okay with Paris.

“I never thought—” Paris seemed to bite off the rest of that.

“I never thought I’d sit here like this and not want to rip your guts out,” Chakotay said cheerily.

“Actually, that’s what I was going to say. Though I had strangling in mind and not guts.” My god, what an infectious grin. “I guess things change, though.”

“Right. I mean, look at you and B’Elanna. I certainly never saw you two as a couple.”

Paris took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, recently neither have we.”

Which knocked the breath out of him for a minute. Shit—no wonder the guy felt bad about spending the next hundred years in the Delta Quadrant. “Sorry,” he said.

“Just one of those—you know. Those things that … change.”

Yeah, but shit. Paris had worked hard on himself, changed, matured. Seemed like he should get some sort of reward for that. _Oh, yeah—and where in the contract says you get some sort of reward for working hard on yourself?_ _I mean, look at YOU_.

“You know,” Paris said, “I always thought … you and the captain would …”

Chakotay felt his heart skip a beat. “She’s—she’s pretty much married to Starfleet.”

“And you’re—”

“Beginning to think I’m not.”

Paris looked at him then—really looked at him. It suddenly struck Chakotay how few times people actually looked at each other: usually you pretty much decided you knew the person enough that you didn’t really see them; you just checked to make sure they had the expression you expected. Paris’s look was like being scanned: Chakotay had nowhere to hide.

But he found himself looking back. And Paris’s expression changed.

 _Oh, you are in deep, DEEP trouble_ , Chakotay’s brain warned him. Because the sudden sly warmth in Paris’s eyes could undo a eunuch. _And just what_ , Chakotay’s brain warned, _is it going to do to a guy who’s been dating his right hand just far too long?_

He looked away, but his heart was hammering. A shift next to him on the mattress.

“You’re a good officer,” Paris said lightly. “You should have your own ship.”

“Not likely to get one, unless Janeway hands over hers.” Mygod, that damshitfucking tea: he could hear every breath Paris took, and every breath led him through strange thickets where he and Paris brushed more than feet.

“So much for ‘Starfleet’ll save us,’” Paris said dryly.

Chakotay wasn’t going to look; he wasn’t going to look; and when he did, Paris’s gaze held his for what seemed an eternity.

“Gotta be realistic,” Chakotay said.

“Leave your options open,” Paris agreed.

Heartbeat.

“ _All_ your options.” Paris’s soft voice wouldn’t have roused a skittish butterfly.

Chakotay watched him, kneeling there. What would it be like to just—

Paris took a shaky breath. “There’s that look,” he said.

“That…?”

Paris leaned a millimeter closer. “Way before _Voyager_ ,” he said. “The couple of times we went to a bar.” Closer. “Just some of us, for one very cautious drink.” Closer. His voice had a rough edge to it that Chakotay’s cock liked. “You’d get this, ‘I dare you to fuck me’ look in your eyes when you saw something you liked, and she’d take the challenge.” Paris’s mouth was about two centimeters from his; and if Chakotay was going to stop it, he should probably do it now. “Or he would.” Paris’s breath was warm on Chakotay’s lips. “They’d come downstairs afterward—” Oh, so warm. “—and you could tell they’d had the fuck of their lives.”

Yes, stop it now. But then Paris’s mouth touched his, and that tongue met his, and—

They pulled away from each other about an hour later. Paris was flushed in a way Chakotay’s cock liked a lot. A second’s speculation there; and their mouths met again.

Damnfucking handcuffs. Because there had to be a way for more than mouths to fit together, but it would take some doing to find, though meanwhile, fitting everything together was—well, it was just plain delightful. And, truth be told, the restraints added their own undefinable level to the pleasure.

“I’m not usually this—uh—passive,” Chakotay said breathlessly.

“You’re not usually this—uh—immobile,” Paris said with a laugh. “Unless you’ve been holding out on us.”

Chakotay nipped him just hard enough for a laughing yelp. Oh, god, yes: just plain delightful.

There was actually a part in Chakotay’s muzzy brain that was saying something about it probably being a really bad idea for rescuers to find them doing this. But, oh, the simple aphrodisiac of warm skin sliding against his, of Paris’s soft mouth working his lower lip. The sheer intoxication of that ragged breathing in his ear. Rescuers be damned.

A puzzle of tangled arms, and then knees bumping; and Paris’s earlobe where he could suck on it; and Paris’s gasp. Teeth grazing the side of his neck. Handcuffs rattled against the headboard.

On his back with his heels dug into the gritty mattress, Paris over him, moaning into his mouth. Oh, shit.

Paris straddled him. Chakotay arched. That strong throat was salty under his tongue. Crisp chest hair brushed his nipples. And, oh, that hard, slick cock burning against his as their pelvises met. A second or two to get the angle and the rhythm.

Oh yes, shit yes. Their fingers laced. The headboard tapped against the wall, where something scurried.

The bedsprings squeaked beneath them, faster and faster. Yes.

The headboard slammed against the wall. God, yes.

Chakotay dug hard into the mattress, met every thrust of Paris’s hips with a hard thrust of his own.

The springs beneath them reached an all-out gallop. Paris’s breathy whispers resolved themselves into, “Fuck me, oh, fuck me, oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuck—”

And, oh, just that mere breathless invitation set off the explosion that had been building too long. He was all light and heat and Paris’s rhythmic words—

And then he was just the rhythm and the words and their sweat-slick bodies sliding against each other. Paris thrust and thrust, and mygod the man had stamina.

That nova-hot cock against Chakotay’s slippery belly was a pleasure all its own, though; and he fuzzily gave himself to it, moving against Paris’s cock, murmuring encouragement and promises, while the rhythm of Paris’s hips sharpened and Paris’s “fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck” in Chakotay’s ear took on a breathy urgency that the tapping headboard mimicked.

Then suddenly he was caught up in the breathless eternity of Paris’s orgasm as Paris’s hips jerked against him, twice, again; and wet warmth flooded between them.

Oh fuck yes, yes, yes.

They lay for an eternity or a moment, gulping air. Paris’s heart beat wildly against Chakotay’s chest.

Then, “Ow ow _ow_.” Damn handcuffs.

“Sorry.” Paris shifted off him.

“Not your fault.” Chakotay eased himself up. Damn—he must have strained something. “It’s the—” He winced as a cramp started up in his shoulder. “—the fucking handcuffs.”

“As long as it wasn’t the fucking.”

My god, Paris post coital was just— Glowing with sweat and pleasure, hair damp, mouth puffy with kissing: the man should just be illegal. He probably was, on some of the outer planets.

Then Paris leaned in, and Chakotay met him. The kiss was playful. Their tongues slid happily against each other. When they drew back, Paris laughed. His laugh was probably illegal on some of the inner planets as well.

Another kiss. They grinned at each other.

Chakotay grabbed the headboard and shook it in comic triumph. And—a sudden grating, and the whole thing shifted in his hands. All that slamming against the wall—

Paris laughed. “I knew that was an earth-shaker, but I never thought it’d bend thick metal!”

It hadn’t bent much; but if they worked on it— There were scurrying sounds inside the building that Chakotay didn’t like, and it was sliding into late afternoon. Night here wouldn’t be a treat, even with Paris beside him.

Scurrying sounds. And— Shit, there were voices; he could hear voices, somewhere in the building.

Chakotay stared at a startled Paris.

“Just who,” Paris said, “would you least like to have come through that door first?”

Chakotay gave him a rueful grin and tried to curl himself sideways to the door.

Somebody sneezed nearby, sneezed again. Damn—he knew that sneeze.

The door opened; and for a long, breathless second, Kathryn Janeway stared at them.

She turned her back on them in a heartbeat. Ah, those quick reactions that make for great Starfleet captains.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was shaky.

“Yes, Captain,” he said.

“Good.”

Outside, there was more movement.

“They’re fine,” Janeway said firmly. “If you could—” She tensed, and Chakotay could see her thinking. He watched that little back straighten. “Just hand me those blankets and wait out here.”

She approached with blankets unfolded and with eyes casually averted, the good Starfleet captain checking the lay of the land. “My god, how the hell did they _find_ this place?” She jumped at the sound of something scurrying in the wall.

In that instant, he loved her, not as a man, but as a friend. The good captain, protecting their dignity by covering them herself, not chancing someone else’s curiosity. He could serve under her command for the rest of his life.

“Thanks, Captain,” Paris said when she draped them.

Janeway smiled at him and sneezed again. “This _dust_ ,” she said. She leaned in. “Even Tuvok’s affected,” she said nasally; and sneezed again. She frowned at the handcuffs. Then she flicked a look at him, and her eyes were apologetic. “I’m sorry, Chakotay,” she said. “You were right. I should have listened.” For half a second she looked directly into his eyes, and a conversation went on that left them both smiling.

“Mr. Kim,” Janeway called. “We need a plasma torch here. _Now_.”

——

“Apparently, it was an accident.” Captain Janeway stood a discreet distance away while the Doctor finished his ministrations. “You took two sips of that tea, and down you both went. The rest, however—” Her voice had protective growl.

“How did they get onto the ship?” Chakotay hitched his slipping survival blanket and eyed the Doctor, who’d finished running the regenerator over their slightly chewed wrists and was now frowning over his tricorder.

“Believe it or not, they pretended to be you two. Ensign Lang thought you sounded a little strange, but everybody was sounding strange: all that dust was having a very bad effect on us.”

“But the Commander and I were fine,” said Paris.

“The tea,” the Doctor explained. “It has powerful antihistamine qualities, which meant you weren’t affected. And which probably multiplied its narcotic qualities.” There was still something in the scan, though, that seemed to puzzle him. Chakotay hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was: could the damned tricorder show that they’d recently had sex?

“Anyway,” Janeway went on, “Tingondraassiik’o’na and Shalmaronarisl’ch’ke knocked Ensign Lang unconscious and managed to do quite a lot of exploring before we realized we had spies on board. A pair of familiar uniforms just whisking out of sight: nobody even knew they were strangers. After we did realize, they led us on quite a chase. We had a heck of a time trying to flush them from Jeffries Tube 13. Finally just locked onto them with the transporter and beamed them right out.”

“Did they get what they were looking for?” Chakotay asked.

“No, actually.” That seemed to amuse Janeway. “They were having a hard time conversing with our computers. The operating system was too different for them to figure out.” She looked at Chakotay, her expression one of rueful amusement. “I’m sorry, Commander. You went through all that, and for nothing.”

Well, maybe not _nothing_. On the other bed, Paris was eyeing him covertly.

“Well,” the Doctor said, “everything _seems_ to be back to normal. The effects of the tea appear to have worn off.”

“Good!” Janeway said.

“There were some readings,” the Doctor went on, “that were very unexpected, especially the ones taken just after they found you. Increased respiration and blood flow, which is to be expected, since you were slamming something against a wall to call attention to yourselves.” Chakotay felt himself stop breathing. “But those higher hormone levels—” Over the Doctor’s shoulder, Paris’s face was a study in panic. “—and the increase in endorphins—” Oh, shit, he _could_ tell they’d been having sex. “—and the elevated—” The Doctor caught the glare Chakotay was giving him, looked puzzled for a nanosecond, blinked, and looked apprehensive. “—elevated … neuro … plasmo … techtonates—” He seemed mesmerized by Chakotay. “—are … perfectly normal!” He snapped the tricorder shut with a snap, gave Chakotay another wary glance, and stalked off.

“Well!” Janeway radiated satisfaction. “New uniforms, and you two will be right back in business.”

Right back in business. Well— “Good!” said Chakotay. “That wasn’t my favorite place to spend a day.”

“Hey—I _tried_ ,” Paris said lightly.

Janeway grinned fondly at him as she left.

“I really did try,” Paris said in a low voice once they were alone. His tone teetered between joking and regret.

Chakotay looked at him. “And I’d say—I’d say you succeeded,” he said, “magnificently.” His breath caught at the sudden joy in Paris’s face.

“There’s that look again,” Paris said softly.

And there was that rough edge to Paris’s voice. Paris got off the bed, slung the end of his survival blanket over one shoulder like a space-age Roman. Chakotay grinned as he watched Paris come over to his bed. Hormones rising; and those neuroplasmotechtonates were perking along just fine.

Paris perched beside him. They looked at each other.

Chakotay glanced over to make sure the Doctor was busy in his office; and reached over to finger Paris’s hair. “I really did like this longer,” he said gently.

“I could grow it back,” Paris said. He rolled his eyes up as if to look ruefully at his hairline. “I’m afraid it won’t be quite what it was,” he said with a laugh.

“None of us is,” Chakotay said, grinning.

“Good thing,” Paris said.

“Uniforms, gentlemen?” the Doctor called from his office.

“Back to steering in a straight line,” said Paris.

 _And back to saying “Bring the thermoneutrofractionated field coil stabilizers to thirty-two percent” about ten times a shift_ , Chakotay thought. But—it was okay. Paris was here; and suddenly the Delta Quadrant seemed full of wonder and the possibility of excitement.

And, if necessary, he could replicate a couple sets of handcuffs.

He could hardly wait to see what happened next.

**Author's Note:**

> A quicklie little piece of fluff for my friend (my personal muse, apparently), who suggested that handcuffs would fit her mood just fine. And a little life-gets-dull stuff courtesy of adulthood. Some of Chakotay's grumpier thoughts about Janeway, their relationship, and his place on the ship come from some things Robert Beltran said before the show ended; I agree with him and thought it would be even more fun to play around with some of it. The stuff about the hair just needed to be explored. I had a lot of fun with names and technobabble on this one. And, no, I can't pronounce the D'honian names, either.


End file.
